


The First Of All Passions

by davosmymaster



Category: The Great (2020), The Great (Hulu), The Great (TV Show)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Heavy Swearing, Language Barrier, Orlo-Centered, Orlo-POV, Peter is a real asshole in this one, Sexism, Sexual Themes, Slow Burn, Torture, a bad try at slow burn, i don't speak swedish so probably a lot of mistakes, prisoner, swedish reader, usual historical inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davosmymaster/pseuds/davosmymaster
Summary: The first time he saw you, he did not actually see you. Instead, he spotted the true cruelness that dwelled the emperor’s heart. This realization would haunt the count mercilessly until the end of days and perhaps even beyond.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader, Count Orlo x Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	The First Of All Passions

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!! It’s me again with a long fic for our favourite aristocrat. I’ve been planning this fic for a while now and I really hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> Special thanks to my awesome beta reader once more @wondersofthemultiverse <3 without her this would make 0 sense.
> 
> This fic contains some dialogue in swedish but I don’t actually speak swedish so if anyone does and spots a mistake or anything (probably it will have loads because haha google translate) I’d be very thankful for any help.

THE FIRST OF ALL PASSIONS - PART ONE

Although Orlo had committed to his rational thinking and talked Catherine against it, on this day, there was nothing he craved more than to be the ultimate cause of Emperor Peter’s death.

From the moment he woke up that fateful October the 6th, he knew something would ruin the productive plans he had consciously prepared for his birthday. After all, this day had been ruined every single year without fail, since the day he took the title of count from his father and relocated to the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg when he was barely eighteen. He should not have held such hopes as a consequence of this reasoning, but even with those odds stacked against him, Orlo often caught himself daydreaming about this day like the naive young man he was sometimes turned into.

Fearing that someone would take his only free day a year from him, he snuck up to the library in the early morning, when the serfs weren’t around yet and the use of a candle was imperative to wander the corridors.

He stayed there until early afternoon, burying his nose in books and travelling far away from his body; a body that even he didn’t own. He devoured Voltaire, Descartes and Diderot. Hours passed without his knowledge, and when the second candle consumed; he stood next to the window. Sometimes reading, sometimes not. Always deep in thought and dreaming of a better Russia. He would have loved to open the window and breathe some fresh air, anything that wasn’t the thick dust piled up and floating in the small room, but he feared someone would find his hiding place. There was not much clean air to breathe anyway, he could see the thick black smoke swallowing the clear blue sky from where the bodies were burnt in the front.

He briefly closed his eyes, noticing how his mind got stuck in a train of thought with a new destination, one that he preferred to avoid. He glanced at the source of the smoke for the last time, clenched his jaw as hard as he could and left the spot next to the window.

He got out just one second, just one; hoping to get to his apartments to take something for his growling stomach just before he went back to the library to eat surrounded by the quiet company of books. Instead, he bumped into the last person he wanted an encounter with.

“Orlo!” the voice pierced his ears fiercely from behind “I haven’t seen you all day, you son of a bitch!”

Peter.

Even his own thoughts sounded dejected, he acknowledged. It wouldn’t have bothered Orlo so much if Peter was an actual emperor and not just the twat who sat in the throne and held the crown. He wouldn’t be so annoyed if Peter was… well, great. But Russia had already had a Peter the Great and, unfortunately, Count Orlo wasn’t his advisor but his descendants; a character who had inherited little of his father’s leadership.

“Sor-” He tried to apologize, even though he didn’t regret a split second.

That was just how things were in the court of Emperor Peter. Orlo had to apologize even if he wasn’t wrong, even if there was nothing to apologize for. At this point, the word ‘sorry’ had utterly lost its meaning and purpose in his mind.

“Where the hell were you?” Peter questioned.

“Oh, don’t answer. I really don’t care. Happy birthday.” Peter sighed loudly, “...finally. It is your birthday, isn’t it? Catherine didn’t remind me during breakfast, like at all.”

“Yes, it is. Thank you, your majesty”

‘Please, leave. Please, leave. Please, leave. Please, leave. Please, leave.’

“Actually, Orlo. I have a present for you. An actual present, not those shitty glasses and books Catherine ordered for you-” he seemed to be talking to himself out loud and it didn’t surprise Orlo in the slightest. “-A present that will actually help you.”

Orlo briefly blinked, sighing quietly through his nose.

Catherine, as always, had been smart and sharp-eyed. She had noticed what his face was missing from the moment she first saw him after coming back from the front. Although Orlo hoped she hadn’t spotted what else he was missing beyond his looks.

Her husband, on the other hand, was unpredictable and, without a doubt, whatever he had chosen to give him, wouldn’t be of much use for the Count.

“Oh, just fake surprise when she gives them to you, will you?”

“Indeed, sir”

Peter’s smile grew. It was a smile that drew chills to his spine every single time and didn’t portend anything good. Orlo feared for his life for a split second, quickly noticing Peter’s hands hiding behind his figure. 

The Count swallowed a lump forming in his throat, backing off slightly. He felt his soul leave his body when his fingertips hit the plain wall behind. No weapon, nowhere to run.

Without a word, which was extremely unusual of him, the emperor turned around and began walking in the opposite direction. His hands were empty.

“Orlo!”

It took him a while to perceive the emperor’s intentions, more than he would dare to admit even to himself. He took a shaky breath and pushed his fears and thoughts aside, as far away from him as he could. He muttered a ‘fuck me’ as a final act of discontent, and promptly vanished from the hallway following an oddly content Peter.

“I can ignore a large number of things in my court, I don’t care who fucks who” Peter said “...just as long as everyone fucks.”

Orlo had already heard that sentence leave the emperor’s mouth a considerable number of times before. It wasn’t a secret that Peter was a very promiscuous man, and he had formed the habit of bragging about his ‘great’ skill in bed quite consistently. 

At the same time, Orlo had acquired another habit by a mere survival instinct. Just as much as Orlo had to pretend he was blind when the emperor did something immoral, he also had to turn a deaf ear to Peter’s highly explicit comments. It was a bit harder to pretend deafness when even the walls seemed to judge his own lack of sexual experience, but most of the time it was a useful technique that kept the count admirably sane considering the circumstances. If he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t respond. And being mute was, without a doubt, the ability that helped Orlo the most to avoid death for the last ten years.

He couldn’t play deaf now, not when the situation suggested that his life depended on it.

“You’ll see, it will fix all of your problems,” Emperor Peter said cheerfully as Orlo followed him through the dark. “You will finally stop being such a lobcock. Celibate is not welcomed in my presence.”

“Except for the church…”

Orlo knew it was a dangerous game to talk back to Peter. The wise response was always silence. Although he was probably one of the worst imbeciles in the country, trouble was he happened to be the most powerful one and lacked any type of guilt. An incredibly dangerous mix.

“Indeed” Peter responded.

“The church seems to be the exception to many rules, sir”

“I rule men and God rules me. Fuck! It’s not that difficult to understand!”

Orlo took a deep breath through the mouth and tried to follow silently this time.

There was only one reason why Emperor Peter would take his advisor to the dungeons of the palace. Certainly, it had nothing to do with the useful birthday present Peter claimed to have, unless said present was death itself. Orlo would have loved to think that after so many years of insults and humiliation he was ready to embrace his final moments, but that simply wasn’t true. He still held hope for a better Russia, and also had some books to finish first.

“Sir...” he muttered out of breath, trying to follow Peter’s strides and trying to avoid the putrid smell of the dungeons.

“I’ve been your advisor, and friend, for many years…” the count tried not to grimace at the idea of declaring the emperor his friend but he had no option of continuing his discussion as the emperor cut him off.

“That is exactly why I’m rewarding you, Orlo” he said, a big smile never leaving his features. “For god’s sake why does it stink so bad here?”

Orlo could have responded, but he decided against it in the last second. His cleverness was never found useful and was hardly ever welcomed. It wasn’t that hard to figure out the source of the smell either, even with the limited capacity of an emperor whose literary knowledge only went as far as the back of liquor labels.

The dungeons of the palace were built underground and the main entrance was permanently locked. The lack of windows caused poor air circulation, consequently, the only oxygen was provided by the rare opening of the gate when guards shifts came to an end or a serf supplied drinks. To make matters even worse, the scarce air inside was musty and reeked of urine.

In ten years, Orlo had been there just once. He had promised that as much as he hated to know that people were being held captive there, he would never go back again. He had promised himself to help them one day, but he fears it to be an empty one as he couldn’t exactly place how long it had been since the thought had first crossed his mind. 

The matters of the court and his own persona had unfortunately placed themselves on top of the long list of things that demanded his urgent attention. He hated to admit that he had entirely forgotten about the existence of the poor souls who suffered hell just below his feet. Meanwhile, he attended parties well into the night and read endless books during the little free time he was gifted with.

When both men finished the last flight of stairs, a long corridor with no end stood proudly in front of them, cells had bars instead of doors and rocks instead of beds. Cries of anguish filled the air the instant Peter appeared, wails reverberated off the walls as they cried for the emperor’s mercy. 

It surprised Orlo to hear his own name being yelled behind the bars too, serfs were punished when they committed serious crimes, thrown away in the dungeon to rot for their lack of loyalty. Orlo had no doubt that many of the souls trapped here now had served his glass or brought him meals. He would never put his own serfs through such a trauma, that was in part why all the serfs treated him with extra kindness.

Orlo quickly wiped away a lonely tear running down his face before the emperor could see it.

His pace suddenly came to a stop. The figure of a sleepy guard, whose uniform was stained with drops of blood, stirred at the sight of Peter and dedicated a military salute to both men. Orlo greeted back, removing his sleeve from his nose for the first time since he had entered the dungeon. Peter did not.

“Open the cell and fuck off,” he ordered, turning around to address Orlo, “You see, Orlo, I can’t give you a woman who desires you, trying to find her would be hard work even with my brilliance, but I can give you a hole to stick your small cock in.”

A series of lines appeared in Orlo’s forehead as he frowned deeply. He backed off slightly, not knowing himself if it was due to his confusion or the wave of nausea caused by the smell. 

He also felt a slight relief knowing that his own murder had no place in Peter’s mind.

“What…?” he whispered.

The gate was pulled open with a piercing squeak. He hissed under his breath at the uncomfortable noise, which disrupted all of his thoughts and left his mind utterly blank like a fresh sheet of paper.

The first time he saw you, he did not actually see you. Instead, he spotted the true cruelness that dwelled the emperor’s heart. This realization would haunt the count mercilessly until the end of days and perhaps even beyond.

In the small space of the cell, the count saw a mound of raggedy white clothes covered in mud. At first, he only saw the fabric, which seemed to be a fine silk with embroidered adornments. Your clothes were torn and covered in stains from blood and dirt, a pile of filthy well worn garments curled up in a ball in the far corner. A slight movement caught his attention amongst all the chaos, and only then did his mind acknowledge that under all the mess, there was a person.

The breath was caught in his throat, the walls bending and shifting violently in front of him. He blinked once... twice… and tried to grapple for leverage, his fingers brushing the jagged stone wall. He almost stumbled to his knees when his nails latched onto the grout between the stone pieces, tethering himself upright.

You jolted from your position on the floor, tossing and turning as you grappled the adjacent wall for leverage; a desperate attempt to adjust yourself into an upright position. Your movements were slow and unsteady, legs kicking outwards and coating themselves in a thick layer of grime and mud. 

Orlo suspected that the horrible sound of the gate had woken you up, his body frozen in place almost as though his feet had grown roots. After a moment's hesitation at watching you struggle, a surge of sympathy passed through the Count like a wave, his legs moving without his knowledge as he instinctively jumped into action.

Walking inside of the cell without a second thought, Orlo grabbed you gently but firmly by the elbow in a desperate try to help steady and calm you. His chivalry taking action even before he could connect the dots and figure out that a stranger touching you was the last thing you needed given the circumstances.

You froze, your muscles stiffening like those of a corpse, a curtain of knotted hair still falling between the both of you. Orlo couldn’t bring himself to let go, his mind ticking overtime as he took stock of your appearance. 

The skin of your arm was cold and clammy under his warm fingers, your eyes wild and wide like a spooked animal. Skin hidden beneath a thick layer of dirt and grime, blood matted your hair and marked your temple. Orlo hoped to see a woman, but instead all he saw was the terrorized eyes of a victim; a sight which would haunt him for days.

He waited for a second, not knowing what to do or what to say in this situation. He slightly pushed upwards, hoping you would understand that he was just trying to help you, mainly because he couldn’t find the appropriate words to say. 

Reluctantly you wordlessly allowed his hand to guide you upright, your eyes locked onto his inquisitively and muscles stiff; positioned ready to bolt at a moment's notice. 

Finally, you were sitting on the hard floor.

How many days had she been there?

“I knew you would absolutely love it”

Anger exploded inside him, his muscles locked and fists closed ready to fight despite his poor physical abilities.

He didn’t like it. He absolutely didn’t. He despised the idea. 

He wanted to run as far away from Russia as he could. He wished he had been born in another country, a country where he wouldn’t be mocked relentlessly, where he could join the enlightenment flourishing in Europe; a place where his ideas would actually be heard. 

Another era, perhaps.

“Who is she? Where did you find her?” Orlo didn’t even address Peter’s title of emperor, or sir. In that moment he felt as though he was done with good manners.

“She’s no one. Just a Swede. I’ll spare the details”

He stood, apparently calmly but with an insuppressible thunderstorm roaring inside of him. He rolled his sleeves trying to calm himself down, his hands marked with small stains of mud, but he was far away from caring in the slightest. 

Orlo focused on not jumping straight for Peter’s neck. Being 5’7’’ and seeing the emperor holding his chin up with a ear-to-ear grin didn’t help to cope with his anger either.

“I would very much like to know the details. Details are important”

“I have no idea if she’s a virgin if that’s what you're asking, probably not, seeing those bedroom eyes of hers. Could absolutely get you a virgin, though” Peter said.

Orlo stood silently, seemingly having an even harder time at avoiding the urge to punch him in the face. Why was it that Peter’s only topic of conversation always had something to do with sex? Why did he even care if a stranger was a virgin or not?

Peter sighed loudly, rolling his eyes as he signalled his discontentment at what he liked to call ‘Orlo’s tight ass’. Under the pressing need of the count’s silent stare, he decided to speak.

“Soldiers found her carriage in the woods, thought she could be a messenger that had information. Velementov brought her here but if she knows anything, she hasn’t said. Or maybe she’s extremely good at being tortured, who the fuck knows?” he shrugged. “We got nothing from her, but the fact that she cannot be useful for the war doesn’t mean she cannot be useful as a woman.”

“She is my present?” Orlo choked with the words.

“Indeed. Don’t you like-?”

“What would you have done with her if my birthday wasn’t near?”

“Woah... Rude.” Peter laughed, “Only a minute in front of a female and you are already a changed man, Orlo. Can’t wait for what’s coming!” 

Peter paused as he seemingly considered the question. “Well, as a matter of fact, I ordered some guards to drown her in the lake like we almost did with Catherine, but my wife asked me if I had a present for my dearest friend and I revoked the order just before she drowned to death.”

Peter bristled with confidence, his hands pressing against his hips as he smirked. “I’m such a genius!”

Orlo’s anger gave way to a sense of duty deeply rooted in his soul. He could reject his ‘present’, but then there would be little he could do to save you from Peter’s blood stained hands. 

Then, there were the other prisoners yelling his name from behind the bars, left forgotten in a stinking pit to rot and die either of hunger, suffocation or diseases spread by rats and dirt. Count Orlo had his mind reluctantly at peace thanks to the fact that he had no power to free them without Peter’s approval, and dying for the cause wasn’t very smart either. This time, however, he had the power to save a life from Peter’s hands. Her life depended entirely on himself, he was aware of it.

He just had to take the responsibility, care for two lifes from now on instead of only his own. He wondered if this distress he was feeling was the same of a first-time father when his wife announced she was expecting. Deep down, he knew he didn’t have to make a decision, the choice had been taken and sealed with blood from the instant he saw her horrorized eyes.

If killing a man had caused his mind to shatter and prolonged his nights to the longest they had ever been, Orlo couldn’t imagine how much worse it could get if he was the one responsible for a woman’s death without any justifiable reason. Your eyes, despite the horror they carried, were warm, praiseworthy and full of life.

He just couldn’t.

Orlo lowered his gaze to the rocks, the mud, the puddle of dirty water coming from the leak in the ceiling. The words spilling from his lips softly, pouring like purulence from a guilt-ridden heart.

“I really like her, sir”

“HUZZAH ORLO!” Peter yelled, hitting his shoulder without mercy. His joy made him sick to his stomach and Orlo found it difficult to swallow the acid taste of vomit in the back of his throat.

“For a moment there I thought you would refuse. Then I would have to call you a lobcock again and Catherine doesn’t like that.” Peter then whispered in his ear, “You will always be a lobcock to me, though.”

He hit Orlo’s shoulder once again, this time a lot softer.

“You are free to come to the dungeons whenever you wish.” Peter continued, “I certainly hope there will be many visits.”

Orlo couldn’t fight the need to look at your face again. Your eyes still held fear, but they were much calmer now. Orlo licked his dry lips, but his mouth was considerably devoid of moisture and tainted with the sharp tang of metal. 

The Count then remembered Peter had called you ‘swede’ and wondered if you even knew what was happening around you. A part of him knew you were calmer solely because his grip had disappeared from your flesh, but he also hoped that perhaps you understood his intentions to be innocent.

Orlo kneeled beside you, staring at your terrified eyes with his own chocolate irises. Clearing his throat, Orlo tried to recall some of his poorly practiced swedish.

“Förstår du vad vi sa?” (“Do you understand what we said?”)

Your eyes widened in a mix of recognition and gratitude, most certainly to a deity that had not shown you kindness, not even now that you belonged to him.

“Inte mycket” (“Not much”) you replied with a hoarse whisper. 

He wondered how many days you had been there, because presumably they had been the same amount of days you had spent without a single drop of clean water. Orlo struggled with the meaning of the words for a full minute, until it all clicked in his mind, then he tried not to think about the poor state you were in. 

“Please… döda mig inte” (“Please….Don’t kill me”)

You grabbed one of his sleeves with shaky fingers, just below the shoulder; the fabric crumpled up under your firm but weak grip. Orlo barely understood swedish and still, everything made sense in his mind while watching the fear portrayed in your features. 

Orlo silently watched you flex your jaw and figured that if you weren’t dehydrated and in such a weakened state, you would have most certainly fought tooth and nail for your freedom. He could see the firm grip on life you held as it shimmered across your eyes, and suddenly he felt slightly better about his choice.

“I own her, don’t I?” Orlo stated without turning to look at Peter.

“Of course.”

“I want her in my apartments, in that case.” Orlo ordered, “I won’t go back to this pestilent place every time I require her.”

The count turned around enough to have a glimpse at Peter’s proud smile. He wondered if he would ever be able to wipe away that horrible expression from his face. Now that the ‘coup of ideas’ seemed to be working, Orlo hoped to live long enough to watch the life of his majesty seep away from his flesh as it turned as cold as ice.

“That is a great idea!” Peter jokingly replied, “I would have done the same, always good to have someone to warm your bed… Apart from the fucking, of course! Guard!”

Orlo knew the guard wouldn’t be kind to you. He dedicated a reassuring smile to your figure, one that didn’t seem to work, and whispered.

“Du kommer att bli bra” (“You will be fine”)

He couldn’t stop thanking his limited knowledge. Until now, the language barrier hadn’t been a big deal, but without a doubt that would change in the near future. After all, you would be spending a lot of time with him for the foreseeable future.

Numbly Orlo registered the guard appearing and Peter mumbling an order beneath his breath. Orlo was too focused on your features to understand the words which floated around the cell, his eyes trained on your sight as it rocked back and forth between the guard, Peter and himself. 

In a given moment the guard took the jacket of his uniform and entered the small cell with it in his hands. Fear flooded your features as you looked at Orlo, silently begging for freedom. You still hadn’t found out that, despite being the emperor’s advisor, he was as far away from freedom as you were.

When he heard the piercing scream of fear torn from your throat, he once more prayed for deafness. This time, it was even worse than any other he had experienced before. His humiliation and pain couldn’t compare to the scream of someone who believed to be touching death with one’s fingertips.

And the blame was all his.


End file.
